Danse macabre
by Shari Aruna
Summary: "What a pity", Hannibal says, pulling him back and tightening his hold to comfort him. "But I know why you did it, Will. Really, I understand. It wasn't your fault. If you lie to yourself often enough, you begin to believe your own lies. If you wear a mask for too long, you begin to forget your own face. It was only a matter of time, my friend."


The only thing that Will remembers clearly is that it all starts with a dance.

The music around them is slow and steady, as if the pianist's hands wouldn't just touch the piano keys, but sank into them like a challenge. And so the notes follow each other clean and clear, with a precision more suitable for a surgeon than for an artist. Somewhere, in the meantime, a clock's slowly ticking, with the calm tenacity of eternal things.

Alana smiles as she twirls in his arms.

She's wearing a long, dark red velvet dress. The train of tulle gathers behind her like a scarlet trail that follows them, stretching out more and more every time the waltz's steps force them to move.

All around them there's the smell of flowers and scented candles. The low lights make Will lose the sense of depth, and the edges of the dance floor fades into black nothingness. They could be anywhere and nowhere, they might be in one of the finest restaurant in city or suspended into the space, somewhere between the night sky and the stormy sea.

Because the sea is there, lurking. Will can feel it. He hears the roar of the waves creep into the space between one note and another, and the smell of salt below the scent of wax and roses. He doesn't care. Not now.

Alana's hand, wrapped in a red lace glove, tightens a little more in his, and he twirls her again. The skirt of the dress swells, creating a velvet wheel that caresses his legs with a slight rub. Will take note of the silk collar around her neck, a thin string of a bit darker red than her dress, studded with snow-white diamonds.

He has never seen her so elegant and so beautiful.

As they continue to dance, the music becomes more and more tenuous, more and more slow. Almost intimate. So Will slightly bends toward the woman in his arms. Even her lips are red. So beautiful. So inviting. He kisses her, just brushing her mouth with his, shivering when her hot breath shatters on his still wet lips.

"I can't, Will" Alana sighs, but she's still smiling. It is an invitation to stop or to kiss her again? In doubt, Will put his hands around her waist and pulls her against him, feeling the softness of her hips under the velvet.

And then the music stops altogether.

Will looks up and finally recognizes the place where they are. It's not a restaurant, it's Dr. Lecter's study. Now he recognizes the columns, the paintings hanging on the walls, the desk moved under the window to make room for them. He also recognizes the pianist, and he approaches him with a smile.

Hannibal smiles back at him, his fingers still raised a few inches above the piano keys. His hands are blue. Will needs a few seconds to realize he's wearing surgical gloves. It looks strange. Funny, indeed. He opens his mouth to say something about it, but in that moment a scream pierces the silence, and Will immediately turns to Alana.

Again, he needs more than a couple of seconds to figure out what's wrong. She is standing in front of him, in the middle of the room, right where he left her, and she's still wearing her red dress, but now it seems... more tight. Like _drawn on her skin_ tight. It looks like all the frill, the ornaments and the flakes of the fabric had melted on her, creating a nearly... _liquid_ effect.

He rubs his eyes and Alana yells again, and this time Will recognizes the blood. It covers all her body, from her shoulders to her feet, it's on her hands and on her face. The ornaments on her chest are dark and deep wounds, and he knows that they are holes left by the horns of a stag. That fine line he had mistaken for a silk collar is actually an incision that goes from one side of the throat to the other, and the whiteness shining in the candles' light is not diamonds, but bones. When the woman tries to scream again, the blood gurgles and pours from the cut throat, choking every word.

Will yells for her and snaps forward to reach her, but an hand rests firmly on his shoulder.

"What a pity", Hannibal says, pulling him back and tightening his hold to comfort him. "But I know why you did it, Will. Really, I understand. It wasn't your fault. If you lie to yourself often enough, you begin to believe your own lies. If you wear a mask for too long, you begin to forget your own face. It was only a matter of time, my friend."

Will shakes his head.

"It wasn't me", he whispers, but he feels his hands sticky with blood. He doesn't lower his eyes to make sure if they really are. Instead he says it again, shouting it with as much force as possible, trying to convince himself more than Hannibal: "It wasn't me!"

Hannibal smiles, condescending.

"Of course not", he agrees with that voice that means "of course it is". Then he bends over him to brush his ear with his lips. "But don't worry, I won't tell anyone. It will be our secret. One among many", he whispers.

Shivering, Will walks away from him.

"I'm─", he tries to say, but the voice dies in his throat. Alana's body is now lying on the floor in a large pool of blood and kneeling next to it, Abigail holds the cold hands, looking at her with sadness.

"We should honor her", she murmurs softly. "Otherwise it's only murder. "

Beside him, Hannibal just nods. He pats him again, then he moves his hand from Will's shoulder to his back, where he begins to tap his finger against Will's jacket, as if he was still playing the slow melody.

Will feels his head spinning. He sees blood and red velvet; he hears the sound of the waves and the sound of the piano, Hannibal's touch seems sometimes a caress and sometimes a shallow stab. Abigail is a ghost that appears and disappears in front of his eyes. One moment Alana looks at him with a warm smile, and the next with the stunned face of death. He doesn't understand. He can't tell what is true and what is not. Mirror inside the mirror. Nightmare inside a nightmare.

The room starts to spin just like his head. Suddenly he's no longer in a psychiatric study but on a carousel made of classical music and desperate screams, blood on the walls and rare books on the shelves.

Hannibal's hand rests on the small of his back and pushes him gently forward. The carousel stops abruptly. The world takes the shape of a doorway, and then, step by step, the shape of two chairs in front of a fireplace.

"Will, my friend, you don't look good", the doctor says, with a shade of genuine concern. "Sit down, let me serve you a drink. It's not very ethical, and it definitely goes against my professional interests, but I am convinced that sometimes a sip of alcohol can help more than half an hour of therapy."

Will's face crumples into a grimace that he hopes to be quite similar to a smile.

"I think I got lost for a moment", he confesses, sitting on the chair. It's all right now. There is no body in the middle of the room, surely not Alana's. Abigail's not here. There are no pools of blood. There is no music but the rhythmic tickling of the rain against the window panes.

Hannibal hands him a crystal glass full of red wine.

"Where were you?", he asks then, with a conversational tone, sitting in front of him.

"Not far from here", Will answers, swallowing a long sip of wine. And if for a moment it tastes too mellow and with a bitter, metallic aftertaste, Will immediately pretends to not notice.

.

.

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* * *

- Written for the Hannibal! Kinkmeme, prompts, "Say goodbye / As we dance with the Devil tonight / Do not you dare look at him in the eye / As we dance with the Devil tonight (Dance with the devil - Breaking Benjamin)" hannibal_ita and for 500themes_ita, prompt # 4. Dancing with the devil.  
- English is not my mother tongue, so if you spot any mistake please let me know :)


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